Mother

MOTHER

I heard the mewling of a human brat long before I saw him. I stay away from those creatures as much as I can. None of them have the strength or skill to climb up to our caverns on the mountain tops where we spend the winters. When I descend to the forest to forage I keep well away from them. Some dragons take delight in burning crops or terrorizing the villagers, fouling their wells and carrying off livestock. We never eat human flesh, of course as they are filthy creatures. Some of them are valiant enough and rarely, manage to kill one of our kind.

When I heard the high cry and sobbing I knew one of their young had somehow got separated from its kin. As soon as they are too big to carry, that’s a risk, just as with our young. They too can stumble off and be lost or drowned. That’s a great tragedy as we dragons can only hatch two eggs in a lifetime.

So, it was a terrible thing when a troop of young humans found my little one these many seasons ago and stoned him to death. I returned from the river to find my poor darling dead and broken. Even one little wing and the claw of one foot had been cut off and carried away. My beloved’s gouts of blood, green as the jewelled back of a dragon fly, still shimmering on the dry bracken led me back to a wide part of the river. I could just see, far downstream, a raft floating fast away on the dark flood.

Rage and sorrow battled within me and I threw myself down on the river bank as the jeers and whoops of the young humans faded in the wind. At evening I crawled back into the woods, too grief-stricken to fly or even to summon flame to burn the remains of my little one, as was fitting.

Ever after I have stayed away from villagers, brooding over my grief and yes, fearful of them. So when I heard that mewling cry, that howl, oh, how it brought back the memory, the pain and rage, the guilt of that day of the death of my little one.

If only I had not gone, just for an hour to drink at the river, to wash myself and burnish my scales with the sand of the river bank, if only I had not tarried there for a few moments enjoying the breeze, the sway of the river reeds, the solitary wind that rustled the late summer leaves, large and green, hanging over the stream. If only!

What right did I have to leave my poor little one, alone and at the mercy of those clod-bound boys? They were youngsters who had been taught to hate and fear us. They would have my darling’s claw and wing as talismans all their lives, tokens of their “courage” as dragon killers.

When I heard the cry, anguished and piercing, rage and fear lit in my heart at once. Was it a lost child or was it possible that youngsters were torturing one of their own? I resolved to creep near, to see for myself!

I drew in my wings close to my body and crept through the great stand of oak, turning my head this way and that to be sure no hunting party was nearby. My claws hopped lightly over the fallen leaves, making no more sound than the passage of some squirrel or fox.

A raucous blue jay called her alarm above me but I cared nothing for that. I could hear, closer now, the wails of the young villager.

In my heart I wondered, I hoped, to find a group of louts at their cruel work. I would kill them with one blast of flame from my maw. I would have my revenge. But no, it was just a small child, barely able to walk, I judged, sitting on the stump of a fallen tree, crying and calling. Its face was wet with tears and snot from its tiny nose.

When it saw me it stopped at once, its mouth a perfect circle of astonishment. There was no other human about – that was clear. I could only smell the one salty scent of the child.

My rage dimmed to surprise and curiosity, even to a sort of pity, to see the young one utterly alone, terrified and crying, no doubt for its mother.

The child stared as I hopped closer and then to my astonishment, he laughed and stretched out one chubby hand to touch my green scales.

At that moment, all hate and fear flew away just as the blue jay had done. I wanted only to come closer, to comfort the little creature and to enfold it under my great wings. It was a pretty thing with a great shock of pale hair hanging down over its face. Since they have neither fur nor scales these creatures fit some sort of stuff to their bodies to keep out the cold or the blazing sun, I suppose. This little one’s legs were encased in blue and its upper limbs in a red garment. Its feet and hands were bare and they were what struck me most and made me take pity on him. It struck me that these little hands had never picked up a stone to throw at a bird, to crush an insect, to kill a baby dragon. Those hands had only reached out for food, for his mother’s breast – and at that moment, I felt my own breast stir with the need to feed a little one.

“Child of my enemy. Spawn of villagers. Filthy creature, too disgusting even to eat” and yet his laughter, his little hands and his face wet with tears and his voice, hoarse from sobbing called forth mercy from my own sad mother’s heart. With a swift motion I gathered him from the tree stump and tucked him up under my small mother-wing where we dragons have a little pouch. This lets us fly high with our offspring safe and warm. There too they are nourished with our blood-red milk. They grow strong quickly and surely as fire is kindled in their throats, as their eyesight grows keen and as their own wings spread to bear their weight.

The child stirred restlessly for a moment but I growled softly as we do to calm our own little ones. I made my way to a clearing in the oaks and followed the signs we dragons make on tree limbs until I came to a small cavern in a low cliff overgrown with brambles. The child was asleep even as I lay down myself, my head and my heart full of questions and wonder.

When darkness fell I heard distant shouts and peered out of the cave to see the faint lights of fire brands the villagers sometimes use in winter nights. It was only autumn so I realized that they must be searching for the little one and the constant call they made over and over again must be his name. I wrapped my wings tighter around my body. I did not want him to wake and hear the calls. I must have him for myself for a little time. How wonderful it was once again to care for a young life. It was as if my tiny dragon was restored to me and I could think myself a mother again.

The next day I took him to the river and allowed him to drink water and to gorge himself on the blackberries that were ripe after a long hot summer. He played happily in the sand beside the river. The sun was warm and before I could stop him he took off his blue garment and waded into the river, squealing and giggling at the cool flow of water over his body. I was afraid the current might carry him away. But, no, he soon crawled out, cleaned and refreshed by the swift flowing water. That was one problem solved. I had been loath to lick him clean as I would have done with my own – he was a villager after all and, touched as I was by his helplessness, there were limits to what I could do for him. I allowed him to feed from my body and then tucked him into my pouch and made my way back to the cavern.

Again that night, villagers tramped through the woods calling and brandishing their torches. The little one was awake and he started to cry. It seemed that he was remembering his mother, his family, the world he knew. I comforted him the best I could and he finally fell asleep with his little hand resting on one of my claws. He had left his garment at the river and I was afraid he would be cold so I shielded his body as best I could with one wing. Restless in his sleep he patted the skin and bones of my wing and tossed his head from side to side.

Early the next day I heard some creature scrabbling along the top of the low cliff above our cavern. It was a village woman alone, calling and calling the child’s name. The little one stirred in his sleep. I growled softly hoping to quiet him but he opened his green eyes and stared into mine curiously. His eyes were almost as green as a dragon’s.

It was his mother, of course. All the other villagers may have given up to go to sleep in their disgusting hovels but this one, this mother would not, could not give up the search for her young. I heard her shuffling along the top of the cliff in the dry leaves and then suddenly, losing her footing, she slipped and tumbled down the slope into a bramble patch. I peered out through the overhanging ferns at the mouth of the cave. I could see a tired and miserable looking village woman struggling to unhook thorns from her rags. In her hand she clutched the blue garment the child had left on the river bank. Over and over again she called his name.

He was wide awake now and he scrambled to the mouth of the cave, yelling out in his high voice over and over again as she was doing. She looked up and I saw the look of joy and then of terror as she caught sight of me, my head large and threatening behind the little figure of her son.

There was no hope for me now. She would tell the villagers where I was. Even if I took the child and flew up to the crags high in the mountains, how would the boy survive? What really wrung my heart was the sight of her grief, her panic, her desperate hope that her boy would be restored to her. Could I impose the pain I had suffered onto another creature, even if it was a hated villager?

I gently caught hold of the child by his red jacket and stalked out of the cave. A dragon has her dignity after all. Even if I had allowed myself to be seduced by the beauty and innocence of this child, I must show his mother my majesty. It is hard to maintain one’s dignity when struggling through brambles but somehow I managed to extricate myself and to open my jaws and lay the child at her feet. She appeared frozen, fixed in a morass of fear.

The child jumped up and threw his arms around his mother’s knees. She bent and picked him up, hoisted him onto her shoulder and set off at a surprisingly fast trot, looking back now and then as she ran away from me as quickly as she could. Just as a parting shot I threw a tongue of flame onto a blasted pine tree that stood in her path. It blazed up and I had the satisfaction of hearing the little one squeal and laugh in surprise.

I would have to spread my wings now and fly up to the high mountains. The woman would surely alert the villagers and those with enough courage would come to try to kill me. A tiresome business and one for which I had no heart. Winter would soon be upon us anyway. None of this could return my beloved little dragon to me. Yet, I felt my grief lighter, my guilt forgiven.

I wondered what would become of the boy. Just a few feeds of dragon’s milk – would it make any difference to him? Would he be in any way apart from the other village brats? Stronger? More valiant? Would he be able to spit fire, I wondered. It was, after all, one of the earliest skills a dragon acquires. Not very likely.

All that would remain would be the scar. Yes, he had not been restless the night before only because of the cries of the villagers. How careful I had been as I scratched the likeness of my dragon’s claw on that plump little hand. It had swelled red and angry from the trace of poison I had allowed to flow into the wound. I had saved him, I had marked him. The wretched villagers would remember my mercy towards him and he would always be “child of the dragon”.